Things you Should Know, or Notes to the Abyss

When I told you I thought my body was turning to sand, you told me I was beautiful no matter what. And I believed you.

     Still, there were those piles of yellow-brown sand on the bed sheets in the morning when I woke up—one below my pillow, one just beneath the small of my back and one behind the arch of each ankle.  I scooped them into my hands and made one big pile on the windowsill.  I watched the wind picked off each grain, carrying it out into the city and thought I felt each bit land; one on the roof of a passing bus; another swallowed up by a pigeon; another nestled into the fur of a large and shaggy dog.

     I count things—add them, subtract them.  I multiply.  I divide.  In the shower there are three bottles of shampoo: One dandruff (yours), one store-brand (ours), one that smells like peaches (mine).  There are two bottles of conditioner: One peach to match the shampoo, and one for shine.  There is one bar of soap (yours) and one bottle of moisturizing body wash that smells like vanilla and oatmeal.  There is a man’s razor we both used to use.  There are also three bottles of face wash.  In total: 11 items and one plus one is two.  I am a little worried today because I am almost finished with the bottle of peach shampoo.  That means I can throw that bottle away and then there will be a new number—10.  And one plus zero is only one.

     I have a Jesus nightlight.  It’s incredibly bright and lights up my entire apartment at night. Jesus and his flowing robes are made of off-white plastic and he’s about four inches tall.  You hated him.

     “Too bright,” you said.

     “Let His light light your way,” I said.

     You didn’t laugh.

     “And then God said, “’Let there be light!’”

     Still quiet.

     I tried one more: “This little light of mine,” I sang, “I’m gonna let it shine.”

     Nothing.

     I also have salt and pepper shakers shaped like tiny monks.  The tall skinny monk is for pepper, and he holds a sign that says, ”Give Us This Day.”  The short round monk is for salt and his sign says “Our Daily Bread.”

     I’m beginning to develop a taste for grass.  Crabgrass, in particular.

     “Hey!” I said that day you ate my last cookie.

     “Hay’s for horses, feed me oats,” you said, munching the cookie.

     “Oats are for goats, feed me grass!” I said, quoting what my mom would say to me as a child.

     Then one day I decided to try it—and it’s actually not that bad.  Though I like to wash it first and toss it with a little vinaigrette.

     I remember thinking I could say anything to you.  Then I asked you once if you ever stuck your dick in anything other than a woman.  I was thinking specifically of pudding.  Maybe Jell-O.  Orange Jell-O.  You looked at me like I was crazy and said no.

     “Come on,” I said. “If I had one of those things, I’d do it.”

     “You’re weird,” was all you said in reply.

     That was the first time I thought of you as boring.

     Remember that tile in my kitchen?  That black-and-white checkered tile reminiscent of a ‘50s diner?  The scuffed, faded appearance of said tile points to the possibility that the tile could, in fact, have been transplanted from some ‘50s diner directly into the kitchen of my one-bedroom apartment.  There is, however, one black tile near the stove that looks exactly as black should look.

     “Look at that tile,” I said to you that day, pointing my finger at it.  “Isn’t it the most perfect shade of black?”

     “Maybe it’s not a tile at all,“ you said.  “Maybe it’s an abyss.”

     Then one day, standing at the stove waiting for the water to boil so I could dump in my pack of instant mashed potatoes, I stuck my toe out to tap that black tile and I saw my big toe sink right in.  It disappeared into that inky abyss.  I wondered then if that was where all the mates to my mismatched socks had escaped to, if that was what happened to Merl, my orange tabby.  And if maybe, just maybe, that was what happened to you.

Sarah Colleen Morgan is an MFA candidate at Sarah Lawrence College and an editor for its literary journal, Lumina.